Here again we had the unpleasant experience of sleeping indoors, a miserable, sleepless, stifling night, followed by the inevitable cold.
Next day we rode with our things over the portage to Smith Landing.I had secured the tug Ariel to give us a lift, and at 7 P. M.,October 5, pulled out for the next stretch of the river, ourselvesaboard the tug, the canoe with a cargo towed behind.
That night we slept at the saw-mill, perforce, and having had enough of indoors, I spread my, blankets outside, with the result, as I was warned, that every one of the numerous dogs came again and again, and passed, his opinion on my slumbering form. Next night we selected an island to camp on, the men did not want to stay on the mainland, for "the woods are full of mice and their feet are so cold when they run over your face as you sleep." We did not set up our tents that time but lay on the ground; next morning at dawn, when I looked around, the camp was like a country graveyard, for we were all covered with leaves, and each man was simply a long mound. The dawn came up an ominous rose-red. I love not the rosy dawn; a golden dawn or a chill-blue dawn is happy, but I fear the dawn of rose as the red headlight of a storm. It came; by 8.30 the rain had set in and steadily fell all day.
The following morning we had our first accident. The steamer with the loaded canoe behind was rushing up a rapid. A swirl of water upset the canoe, and all our large packs were afloat. All were quickly recovered except a bag of salted skins. These sank and were seen no more.
On October 9 we arrived at Fort Chipewyan. As we drew near that famous place of water-fowl, the long strings and massed flocks of various geese and ducks grew more and more plentiful; and at the Fort itself we found their metropolis. The Hudson's Bay Company had killed and salted about 600 Waveys or Snow Geese; each of the Loutit families, about 500; not less than 12,000 Waveys will be salted down this fall, besides Honkers, White-fronts and Ducks. Each year they reckon on about 10,000 Waveys, in poor years they take 5,000 to 6,000, in fat years 15,000. The Snow and White-fronted Geese all had the white parts of the head more or less stained with orange. Only one Blue Goose had been taken. This I got; it is a westernmost record. No Swans had been secured this year; in fact, I am told that they are never taken in the fall because they never come this way, though they visit the east end of the lake; in the spring they come by here and about 20 are taken each year. Chipewyan was Billy Loutit's home, and the family gave a dance in honour of the wanderer's return. Here I secured a tall half-breed, Gregoire Daniell, usually known as "Bellalise," to go with me as far as Athabaska Landing.
There was no good reason why we should not leave Chipewyan in three hours. But the engineer of my tug had run across an old friend; they wanted to have a jollification, as of course the engine was "hopelessly out of order." But we got away at 7 next day—my four men and the tug's three. At the wheel was a halfbreed—David MacPherson—who is said to be a natural-born pilot, and the best in the country. Although he never was on the Upper Slave before, and it is an exceedingly difficult stream with its interminable, intricate, shifting shallows, crooked, narrow channels, and impenetrable muddy currents, his "nose for water" is so good that he brought us through at full speed without striking once. Next time he Will be qualified to do it by night.
In the grove where we camped after sundown were the teepee and shack of an Indian (Chipewyan) Brayno (probably Brenaud). This is his hunting and trapping ground, and has been for years. No one poaches on it; that is unwritten law; a man may follow a wounded animal into his neighbour's territory, but not trap there. The nearest neighbour is 10 miles off. He gets 3 or 4 Silver Foxes every year, a few Lynx, Otter, Marten, etc.
Bellalise was somewhat of a character. About 6 feet 4 in height, with narrow, hollow chest, very large hands and feet and a nervous, restless way of flinging himself about. He struck me as a man who was killing himself with toil beyond his physical strength. He was strongly recommended by the Hudson's Bay Company people as a "good man," I liked his face and manners, he was an intelligent companion, and I was glad to have secured him. At the first and second camps he worked hard. At the next he ceased work suddenly and went aside; his stomach was upset. A few hours afterwards he told me he was feeling ill. The engineer, who wanted him to cut wood, said to me, "That man is shamming." My reply was short: "You have known him for months, and think he is shamming; I have known him for hours and I know he is not that kind of a man."
He told me next morning, "It's no use, I got my breast crushed by the tug a couple of weeks ago, I have no strength. At Fort McKay is a good man named Jiarobia, he will go with you."
So when the tug left us Bellalise refunded his advance and returned to Chipewyan. He was one of those that made me think well of his people; and his observations on the wild life of the country showed that he had a tongue to tell, as well as eyes to see.
That morning, besides the calls of Honkers and Waveys we heard the glorious trumpeting of the White Crane. It has less rattling croak and more whoop than that of the Brown Crane. Bellalise says that every year a few come to Chipewyan, then go north with the Waveys to breed. In the fall they come back for a month; they are usually in flocks of three and four; two old ones and their offspring, the latter known by their brownish colour. If you get the two old ones, the young ones are easily killed, as they keep flying low over the place.
Is this then the secret of its disappearance? and is it on these far breeding grounds that man has proved too hard?
At Lobstick Point, 2 P. M., October 13, the tug turned back and we three continued our journey as before, Preble and Billy taking turns at tracking the canoe.
Next day we reached Fort McKay and thus marked another important stage of the journey.
FORT McKAY AND JIAROBIA
Fort McKay was the last point at which we saw the Chipewyan style of teepee, and the first where the Cree appeared. But its chief interest to us lay in the fact that it was the home of Jiarobia, a capable river-man who wished to go to Athabaska Landing. The first thing that struck us about Jiarobia—whose dictionary name by the way is Elzear Robillard—was that his house had a good roof and a large pile of wood ready cut. These were extremely important indications in a land of improvidence. Robillard was a thin, active, half-breed of very dark skin. He was willing to go for $2.00 a day the round-trip (18 days) plus food and a boat to return with. But a difficulty now appeared; Madame Robillard, a tall, dark half-breed woman, objected: "Elzear had been away all summer, he should stay home now." "If you go I will run off into the backwoods with the first wild Indian that wants a squaw," she threatened. "Now," said Rob, in choice English, "I am up against it." She did not understand English, but she could read looks and had some French, so I took a hand.
"If Madame will consent I will advance $15.00 of her husband's pay and will let her select the finest silk handkerchief in the Hudson's Bay store for a present."
In about three minutes her Cree eloquence died a natural death; she put a shawl on her head and stepped toward the door without looking at me. Rob, nodded to me, and signed to go to the Hudson's Bay store; by which I inferred that the case was won; we were going now to select the present. To my amazement she turned from all the bright-coloured goods and selected a large black silk handkerchief.
The men tell me it is always so now; fifty years ago every woman wanted red things. Now all want black; and the traders who made the mistake of importing red have had to import dyes and dip them all.
Jiarobia, or, as we mostly call him, "Rob," proved most amusing character as well as a "good man" and the reader will please note that nearly all of my single help were "good men." Only when I had a crowd was there trouble. His store of anecdote was unbounded and his sense of humour ever present, if broad and simple. He talked in English, French, and Cree, and knew a good deal of Chipewyan. Many of his personal adventures would have fitted admirably into the Decameron, but are scarcely suited for this narrative. One evening he began to sing, I listened intently, thinking maybe I should pick up some ancient chanson of the voyageurs or at least a woodman's "Come-all-ye." Alas! it proved to be nothing but the "Whistling Coon."
Which reminds me of another curious experience at the village of Fort Smith. I saw a crowd of the Indians about a lodge and strange noises proceeding therefrom. When I went over the folk made way for me. I entered, sat down, and found that they were crowded around a cheap gramophone which was hawking, spitting and screeching some awful rag-time music and nigger jigs. I could forgive the traders for bringing in the gramophone, but why, oh, why, did they not bring some of the simple world-wide human songs which could at least have had an educational effect? The Indian group listened to this weird instrument with the profoundest gravity. If there is anything inherently comic in our low comics it was entirely lost on them.
One of Rob's amusing fireside tricks was thus: He put his hands together, so: (illustration). "Now de' tumbs is you and your fader, de first finger is you and your mudder, ze next is you and your sister, ze little finger is you and your brudder, ze ring finger is you and your sweetheart. You and your fader separate easy, like dat; you and your brudder like dat, you and your sister like dat, dat's easy; you and your mudder like dat, dat's not so easy; but you and your sweetheart cannot part widout all everything go to hell first."
Later, as we passed the American who lives at Fort McMurray, Jiarobia said to me: "Dat man is the biggest awful liar on de river. You should hear him talk. 'One day,' he said, 'dere was a big stone floating up de muddy river and on it was tree men, and one was blind and one was plumb naked and one had no arms nor legs, and de blind man he looks down on bottom of river an see a gold watch, an de cripple he reach out and get it, and de naked man he put it in his pocket.' Now any man talk dat way he one most awful liar, it is not possible, any part, no how."
Now we resumed our daily life of tracking, eating, tracking, camping, tracking, sleeping. The weather had continued fine, with little change ever since we left Resolution, and we were so hardened to the life that it was pleasantly monotonous.
How different now were my thoughts compared with those of lastSpring, as I first looked on this great river.
When we had embarked on the leaping, boiling, muddy Athabaska, in this frail canoe, it had seemed a foolhardy enterprise. How could such a craft ride such a stream for 2,000 miles? It was like a mouse mounting a monstrous, untamed, plunging and rearing horse. Now we set out each morning, familiar with stream and our boat, having no thought of danger, and viewing the water, the same turbid flood, as, our servant. Even as a skilful tamer will turn the wildest horse into his willing slave, so have we conquered this river and made it the bearer of our burdens. So I thought and wrote at the time; but the wise tamer is ever alert, never lulled into false security. He knows that a heedless move may turn his steed into a deadly, dangerous monster. We had our lesson to learn.
That night (October 15) there was a dull yellow sunset. The morning came with a strong north wind and rain that turned to snow, and with it great flocks of birds migrating from the Athabaska Lake. Many rough-legged Hawks, hundreds of small land birds, thousands of Snow-birds in flocks of 20 to 200, myriads of Ducks and Geese, passed over our heads going southward before the frost. About 8.30 the Geese began to pass in ever-increasing flocks; between 9.45 and 10 I counted 114 flocks averaging about 30 each (5 to 300) and they kept on at this rate till 2 P. M. This would give a total of nearly 100,000 Geese. It was a joyful thing to see and hear them; their legions in flight array went stringing high aloft, so high they looked not like Geese, but threads across the sky, the cobwebs, indeed, that Mother Carey was sweeping away with her north-wind broom. I sketched and counted flock after flock with a sense of thankfulness that so many, were left alive. Most were White Geese, but a twentieth, perhaps, were Honkers.
The Ducks began to pass over about noon, and became more numerous than the Geese as they went on.
In the midst of this myriad procession, as though they were the centre and cause of all, were two splendid White Cranes, bugling as they flew. Later that day we saw another band, of three, but these were all; their race is nearly run.
The full moon was on and all night the wild-fowl flew. The frost was close behind them, sharp and sudden. Next morning the ponds about us had ice an inch thick and we heard of it three inches at other places.
But the sun came out gloriously and when at ten we landed at FortMcMurray the day was warm and perfect in its autumnal peace.
Miss Gordon, the postmaster, did not recognise us at first. She said we all looked "so much older, it is always so with folks who go north."
Next morning we somehow left our tent behind. It was old and of little value, so we did not go back, and the fact that we never really needed it speaks much for the sort of weather we had to the end of the trip.
A couple of Moose (cow and calf) crossed the river ahead of us, and Billy went off in hot pursuit; but saw no more of them.
Tracks of animals were extremely abundant on, the shore here. Large Wolves became quite numerous evidently we were now in their country. Apparently they had killed a Moose, as their dung was full of Moose hair.
We were now in the Canyon of the Athabaska and from this on our journey was a fight with the rapids. One by one my skilful boatmen negotiated them; either we tracked up or half unloaded, or landed and portaged, but it was hard and weary work. My journal entry for the night of the 18th runs thus:
"I am tired of troubled waters. All day to-day and for five days back we have been fighting the rapids of this fierce river. My place is to sit in the canoe-bow with a long pole, glancing here and there, right, left, and ahead, watching ever the face of this snarling river; and when its curling green lips apart betray a yellow brown gleam of deadly teeth too near, it is my part to ply with might and main that pole, and push the frail canoe aside to where the stream is in milder, kindlier mood.' Oh, I love not a brawling river any more than a brawling woman, and thoughts of the broad, calm Slave, with its majestic stretches of level flood, are now as happy halcyon memories of a bright and long-gone past."
My men were skilful and indefatigable. One by one we met the hard rapids in various ways, mostly by portaging, but on the morning of the 19th we came to one so small and short that all agreed the canoe could be forced by with poles and track-line. It looked an insignificant ripple, no more than a fish might make with its tail, and what happened in going up, is recorded as follows:
"Oct. 20, 1907.—Athabaska River. In the Canyon. This has been a day of horrors and mercies. We left the camp early, 6.55—long before sunrise, and portaged the first rapid. About 9 we came to the middle rapid; this Billy thought we could track up, so with two ropes he and Rob were hauling us, I in bow, Preble in stem; but the strong waters of the middle part whirled the canoe around suddenly, and dashed her on a rock. There was a crash of breaking timber, a roar of the flood, and in a moment Preble and I and, all the stuff were in the water.
"'My journals,' I shouted as I went down, and all the time the flood was boiling in my ears my thought was, 'My journals,'—'my journals.'
"The moment my mouth was up again above the water, I bubbled out, 'My journals,—save my journals,' then struck out for the shore. Now I saw Preble hanging on to the canoe and trying to right it. His face was calm and unchanged as when setting a mousetrap. 'Never mind that, save yourself,' I called out; he made no response, and, after all, it was safest to hang on to the canoe. I was swept into a shallow place at once, and got on my feet, then gained the shore.
"'My journals—save them first!' I shouted to the two boys, and now remembered with horror, how, this very morning, on account of portaging, I had for the first time put all three journals in the handbag, that had disappeared, whereas the telescope that used to hold two of them, was floating high. It is the emergency that proves your man, and I learned that day I had three of the best men that ever boarded a boat. A glance showed Preble in shallow water coolly hauling in the canoe.
"Rob and Billy bounded along the rugged shores, from one ice-covered rock to another, over piles of drift logs and along steep ledges they went; like two mountain goats; the flood was spotted with floating things, but no sign of the precious journal-bag. Away out was the grub-box; square and high afloat, it struck a reef. 'You save the grub,' yelled Billy above the roaring, pitiless flood, and dashed on. I knew Billy's head was cool and clear, so I plunged into the water, ice-cold and waist deep—and before the merciless one could snatch it along, I had the grub-box safe. Meanwhile Rob and Billy had danced away out of sight along that wild canyon bank. I set out after them. In some eddies various articles were afloat, a cocoa tin, a milk pot, a bag of rare orchids intended for a friend, a half sack of flour, and many little things I saved at cost of a fresh wetting each time, and on the bank, thrown hastily up by the boys, were such bundles as they had been able to rescue.
"I struggled on, but the pace was killing. They were young men and dog-runners; I was left behind and was getting so tired now I could not keep warm; there was a keen frost and I was wet to the skin. The chance to rescue other things came again and again. Twelve times did I plunge, into that deadly cold river, and so gathered a lot of small truck. Then knowing I could do little more, and realising that everything man could do would be done without me, turned back reluctantly. Preble passed me at a run, he had left the canoe in a good place and had saved some bedding.
"'Have you seen my journal-bag?' He made a quick gesture down the river, then dashed away. Alas! I knew now, the one irreplaceable part of our cargo was deep in the treacherous flood, never to be seen again.
"At the canoe I set about making a fire; there was no axe to cut kindling-wood, but a birch tree was near, and a pile of shredded birch-bark with a lot of dry willow on it made a perfect fire-lay; then I opened my waterproof matchbox. Oh, horrors! the fifteen matches in it were damp and soggy. I tried to dry them by blowing on them; my frozen fingers could scarcely hold them. After a time I struck one. It was soft and useless; another and another at intervals, till thirteen; then, despairing, I laid the last two on a stone in the weak sunlight, and tried to warm myself by gathering firewood and moving quickly, but it seemed useless a very death chill was on me. I have often lighted a fire with rubbing-sticks, but I needed an axe, as well as a buckskin thong for this, and I had neither. I looked through the baggage that was saved, no matches and all things dripping wet. I might go three miles down that frightful canyon to our last camp and maybe get some living coals. But no! mindful of the forestry laws, we had as usual most carefully extinguished the fire with buckets of water, and the clothes were freezing on my back. 1 was tired out, teeth chattering. Then came the thought, Why despair while two matches remain? I struck the first now, the fourteenth, and, in spite of dead fingers and the sizzly, doubtful match, it cracked, blazed, and then, oh blessed, blessed birch bark!—with any other tinder my numbed hands had surely failed—it blazed like a torch, and warmth at last was mine, and outward comfort for a house of gloom.
"The boys, I knew, would work like heroes and do their part as well as man could do it, my work was right here. I gathered all the things along the beach, made great racks for drying and a mighty blaze. I had no pots or pans, but an aluminum bottle which would serve as kettle; and thus I prepared a meal of such things as were saved—a scrap of pork, some tea and a soggy mass that once was pilot bread. Then sat down by the fire to spend five hours of growing horror, 175 miles from a settlement, canoe smashed, guns gone, pots and pans gone, specimens all gone, half our bedding gone, our food gone; but all these things were nothing, compared with the loss of my three precious journals; 600 pages of observation and discovery, geographical, botanical, and zoological, 500 drawings, valuable records made under all sorts of trying circumstances, discovery and compass survey of the beautiful Nyarling River, compass survey of the two great northern lakes, discovery of two great northern rivers, many lakes, a thousand things of interest to others and priceless to me—my summer's work—gone; yes, I could bear that, but the three chapters of life and thought irrevocably gone; the magnitude of this calamity was crushing. Oh, God, this is the most awful blow that could have fallen at the end of the six months' trip.
"The hours went by, and the gloom grew deeper, for there was no sign of the boys. Never till now did the thought of danger enter my mind. Had they been too foolhardy in their struggle with the terrible stream? Had they, too, been made to feel its power? My guess was near the truth; and yet there was that awful river unchanged, glittering, surging, beautiful, exactly as on so many days before, when life on it had seemed so bright.
"At three in the afternoon, I saw a fly crawl down the rocks a mile away. I fed the fire and heated up the food and tea. In twenty minutes I could see that it was Rob, but both his hands were empty. 'If they had found it,' I said to myself, 'they would send it back first thing, and if he had it, he would swing it aloft,' Yet no, nothing but a shiny tin was in his hands and the blow had fallen. The suspense was over, anyway. I bowed my head, 'We have done what we could.'
"Rob came slowly up, worn out. In his hand a tin of baking-powder. Across his breast was a canvas band. He tottered toward me, too tired to speak in answer to my unspoken question, but he turned and there on his back was the canvas bag that held labour of all these long toilsome months.
"'I got 'em, all right,' he managed to say, smiling in a weak way.
"'And the boys?'
"'All right now.'
"'Thank God!' I broke down, and wrung his hand; 'I won't forget,' was all I could say. Hot tea revived him, loosened his tongue, and I heard the story.
"I knew,' he said, 'what was first to save when I seen you got ashore. Me and Billy we run like crazy, we see dat bag 'way out in the deep strong water. De odder tings came in de eddies, but dat bag it keep 'way out, but we run along de rocks; after a mile it came pretty near a point, and Billy, he climb on a rock and reach out, but he fall in deep water and was carried far, so he had to swim for his life. I jump on rocks anoder mile to anoder point; I got ahead of de bag, den I get two logs, and hold dem between my legs for raft, and push out; but dat dam river he take dem logs very slow, and dat bag very fast, so it pass by. But Billy he swim ashore, and run some more, and he make a raft; but de raft he stick on rock, and de bag he never stick, but go like hell.
"'Den I say, "Here, Billy, you give me yo' sash," and I run tree mile more, so far I loss sight of dat bag and make good raft. By'mebye Billy he come shouting and point, I push out in river, and paddle, and watch, and sure dere come dat bag. My, how he travel! far out now; but I paddle and push hard and bump he came at raft and I grab him. Oh! maybe I warn't glad! ice on river, frost in air, 14 mile run on snowy rocks, but I no care, I bet I make dat boss glad when he see me."
"Glad! I never felt more thankful in my life! My heart swelled with gratitude to the brave boys that had leaped, scrambled, slidden, tumbled, fallen, swum or climbed over those 14 perilous, horrible miles of icy rocks and storm-piled timbers, to save the books that, to them, seemed of so little value, but which they yet knew were, to me, the most precious of all my things. Guns, cameras, food, tents, bedding, dishes, were trifling losses, and the horror of that day was turned to joy by the crowning mercy of its close.
"'I won't forget you when we reach the Landing, Rob!' were, the meagre words that rose to my lips, but the tone of voice supplied what the words might lack. And I did not forget him or the others; and Robillard said afterward, 'By Gar, dat de best day's work I ever done, by Gar, de time I run down dat hell river after dem dam books!'"
In an hour the other men came, back. The rest of the day we put in drying the things, especially our bedding. We used the aluminum bottle, and an old meat tin for kettle; some bacon, happily saved, was fried on sticks, and when we turned in that night it was with light and thankful hearts, in spite of our manifold minor losses.
Morning dawned bright and beautiful and keen. How glorious that surging river looked in its noble canyon; but we were learning thoroughly that noble scenery means dangerous travel—and there was much noble scenery ahead; and I, at least, felt much older than before this upset.
The boys put in a couple of hours repairing the canoe, then they studied the river in hopes of recovering the guns. How well the river-men seemed to know it! Its every ripple and curl told them a story of the bottom and the flood.
"There must be a ledge there," said Billy, "just where we upset. If the guns went down at once they are there. If they were carried at all, the bottom is smooth to the second ledge and they are there." He pointed a hundred yards away.
So they armed themselves with grappling-poles that had nails for claws. Then we lowered Rob in the canoe into the rapid and held on while he fished above the ledge.
"I tink I feel 'em," said Rob, again and again, but could not bring them up. Then Billy tried.
"Yes, they are there." But the current was too fierce and the hook too poor; he could not hold them.
Then I said: "There is only one thing to do. A man must go in at the end of the rope; maybe he can reach down. I'll never send any man into such a place, but I'll go myself."
So I stripped, padded the track-line with a towel and put it around my waist, then plunged in. Ouch! it was cold, and going seven miles an hour. The boys lowered me to the spot where I was supposed to dive or reach down. It was only five feet deep, but, struggle as I might, I could not get even my arm down. I ducked and dived, but I was held in the surface like a pennant on an air-blast. In a few minutes the icy flood had robbed me of all sensation in my limbs, and showed how impossible was the plan, so I gave the signal to haul me in; which they did, nearly cutting my body in two with the rope. And if ever there was a grovelling fire-worshipper, it was my frozen self when I landed.
Now we tried a new scheme. A tall spruce on the shore was leaning over the place; fifty feet out, barely showing, was the rock that wrecked us. We cut the spruce so it fell with its butt on the shore, and lodged against the rock. On this, now, Rob and Billy walked out and took turns grappling. Luck was with Rob. In a few minutes he triumphantly hauled up the rifle and a little later the shotgun, none the worse.
Now, we had saved everything except the surplus provisions and my little camera, trifling matters, indeed; so it was with feelings of triumph that we went on south that day.
In the afternoon, as we were tracking up the last part of the Boiler Rapid, Billy at the bow, Rob on the shore, the line broke, and we were only saved from another dreadful disaster by Billy's nerve and quickness; for he fearlessly leaped overboard, had the luck to find bottom, and held the canoe's head with all his strength. The rope was mended and a safe way was found. That time I realized the force of an Indian reply to a trader who sought to sell him a cheap rope. "In the midst of a rapid one does not count the cost of the line."
At night we camped in a glorious red sunset, just above the BoilerRapid. On the shore was a pile of flour in sacks, inscribed inCree, "Gordon his flour."
Here it was, the most prized foreign product in the country, lying unprotected by the highway, and no man seemed to think the owner foolish. Whatever else, these Indians are, they are absolutely honest.
The heavenly weather of the Indian Summer was now upon us. We had left all storms and frost behind, and the next day, our final trouble, the lack of food, was ended. A great steamer hove in sight—at least it looked like a steamer—but, steadily coming on, it proved a scow with an awning and a stove on it. The boys soon recognised the man at the bow as William Gordon, trader at Fort McMurray. We hailed him to stop when he was a quarter of a mile ahead, and he responded with his six sturdy oarsmen; but such was the force of the stream that he did not reach the shore till a quarter-mile below us.
"Hello, boys, what's up?" He shouted in the brotherly way that all white men seem to get when meeting another of their race in a savage land.
"Had an upset and lost all our food."
"Ho! that's easy fixed." Then did that generous man break open boxes, bales, and packages and freely gave without a stint, all the things we needed: kettles, pans, sugar, oatmeal, beans, jam, etc.
"How are you fixed for whiskey?" he asked, opening his own private, not-for-sale supply.
"We have none and we never use it," was the reply. Then I fear I fell very low in the eyes of my crew.
"Never use it! Don't want it! You must be pretty damn lonesome in a country like this," and he seemed quite unable to grasp the idea of travellers who would not drink.
Thus the last of our troubles was ended. Thenceforth the journey was one of warm, sunny weather and pleasant travel. Each night the sun went down in red and purple fire; and each morning rose in gold on a steel-blue sky. There was only one bad side to this, that was the constant danger of forest fire. On leaving each camp—we made four every day—I put the fire out with plenty of water, many buckets. Rob thought it unnecessary to take so much trouble. But great clouds of smoke were seen at several reaches of the river, to tell how dire it was that other campers had not done the same.
It seems a law that every deep valley must be next a high mountain. Our sorrows ended when we quit the canyon, and then, as though in compensation, nature crammed the days with the small joys that seem so little and mean so much to the naturalist.
Those last few days, unmarred of the smallest hardship, were one long pearl-string of the things I came for—the chances to see and be among wild life.
Each night the Coyote and the Fox came rustling about our camp, or the Weasel and Woodmouse scrambled over our sleeping forms. Each morning at gray dawn, gray Wiskajon and his mate—always a pair came wailing through the woods, to flirt about the camp and steal scraps of meat that needed not to be stolen, being theirs by right. Their small cousins, the Chicadees, came, too, at breakfast time, and in our daily travelling, Ruffed Grouse, Ravens, Pine Grosbeaks, Bohemian Chatterers, Hairy Woodpeckers, Shrikes, Tree-sparrows, Linnets, and Snowbirds enlivened the radiant sunlit scene.
One afternoon I heard a peculiar note, at first like the "cheepy-teet-teet" of the Pine Grosbeak, only louder and more broken, changing to the jingling of Blackbirds in spring, mixed with some Bluejay "jay-jays," and a Robin-like whistle; then I saw that it came from a Northern Shrike on the bushes just ahead of us. It flew off much after the manner of the Summer Shrike, with flight not truly undulatory nor yet straight, but flapping half a dozen times—then a pause and repeat. He would dive along down near the ground, then up with a fine display of wings and tail to the next perch selected, there to repeat with fresh variations and shrieks, the same strange song, and often indeed sang it on the wing, until at last he crossed the river.
Sometimes we rode in the canoe, sometimes tramped along the easy shore. Once I came across a Great Homed Owl in the grass by the water. He had a fish over a foot long, and flew with difficulty when be bore it off. Another time I saw a Horned Owl mobbed by two Wiskajons. Spruce Partridge as well as the Ruffed species became common: one morning some of the former marched into camp at breakfast time. Rob called them "Chickens"; farther south they are called "Fool Hens," which is descriptive and helps to distinguish them from their neighbours—the "Sage Hens." Frequently now we heard the toy-trumpeting and the clack of the Pileated Woodpecker or Cock-of-the-Pines, a Canadian rather than a Hudsonian species. One day, at our three o'clock meal, a great splendid fellow of the kind gave us a thrill. "Clack-clack-clack," we heard him coming, and he bounded through the air into the trees over our camp. Still uttering his loud "Clack-clack-clack," he swung from tree to tree in one long festoon of flight, spread out on the up-swoop like an enormous black butterfly with white-starred wings. "Clack-clack-clack," he stirred the echoes from the other shore, and ignored us as he swooped and clanged. There was much in his song of the Woodpecker tang; it was very nearly the springtime "cluck-cluck" of a magnified Flicker in black; and I gazed with open mouth until he thought fit to bound through the air to another woods. This was my first close meeting with the King of the Woodpeckers; I long to know him better. Mammals, too, abounded, but we saw their signs rather than themselves, for most are nocturnal. The Redsquirrels, so scarce last spring, were quite plentiful, and the beach at all soft places showed abundant trace Of Weasels, Chipmunks, Foxes, Coyotes, Lynx, Wolves, Moose, Caribou, Deer. One Wolf track was of special interest. It was 5 1/2 inches, long and travelling with it was the track of a small Wolf; it vividly brought back the days of Lobo and Blanca, and I doubt not was another case of mates; we were evidently in the range of a giant Wolf who was travelling around with his wife. Another large Wolf track was lacking the two inner toes of the inner hind foot, and the bind foot pads were so faint as to be lost at times, although the toes were deeply impressed in the mud. This probably meant that he, had been in a trap and was starved to a skeleton.
We did not see any of these, but we did see the post-graduate evidences of their diet, and were somewhat surprised to learn that it included much fruit, especially of the uva-ursi. We also saw proof that they had eaten part of a Moose; probably they had killed it.
Coyote abounded now, and these we saw from time to time. Once I tramped up within thirty feet of a big fellow who was pursuing some studies behind a log. But again the incontrovertible-postmortem-evidence of their food habits was a surprise—the bulk of their sustenance now was berries, in one case this was mixed with the tail hairs—but no body hairs—of a Chipmunk. I suppose that Chipmunk escaped minus his tail. There was much evidence that all those creatures that can eat fruit were in good condition, but that flesh in its most accessible form—rabbits—was unknown, and even next best thing—the mice—were too scarce to count; this weighed with especial force on the Lynxes; they alone seemed unable to eke out with fruit. The few we saw were starving and at our camp of the 28th we found the wretched body of one that was dead of hunger.
On that, same night we had a curious adventure with a Weasel.
All were sitting around the camp-fire at bed-time, when I heard a distinct patter on the leaves. "Something coming," I whispered. All held still, then out of the gloom came bounding a snow-white Weasel. Preble was lying on his back with his hands clasped behind his head and the Weasel fearlessly jumped on my colleague's broad chest, and stood peering about.
In a flash Preble's right elbow was down and held the Weasel prisoner, his left hand coming to assist. Now, it is pretty well known that if you and a Weasel grab each other at the same time he has choice of holds.
"I have got him," said Preble, then added feelingly, "but he got me first. Suffering Moses! the little cuss is grinding his teeth in deeper."
The muffled screaming of the small demon died away as Preble's strong left hand crushed out his life, but as long as there was a spark of it remaining, those desperate jaws were grinding deeper into his thumb. It seemed a remarkably long affair to us, and from time to time, as Preble let off some fierce ejaculation, one of us would ask, "Hello! Are you two still at it," or, "How are you and your friend these times, Preble?"
In a few minutes it was over, but that creature in his fury seemed to have inspired himself with lock-jaw, for his teeth were so driven in and double-locked, that I had to pry the jaws apart before the hand was free.
The Weasel may now be seen in the American Museum, and Preble in theAgricultural Department at Washington, the latter none the worse.
So wore away the month, the last night came, a night of fireside joy at home (for was it not Hallowe'en?), and our celebration took the form of washing, shaving, mending clothes, in preparation for our landing in the morning.
All that night of Hallowe'en, a Partridge drummed near my untented couch on the balsam boughs. What a glorious sound of woods and life triumphant it seemed; and why did he drum at night? Simply because he had more joy than the short fall day gave him time to express. He seemed to be beating our march of victory, for were we not in triumph coming home? The gray firstlight came through the trees and showed us lying each in his blanket, covered with leaves, like babes in the woods. The gray Jays came wailing through the gloom, a faroff Cock-of-the-Pines was trumpeting in the lovely, unplagued autumn woods; it seemed as though all the very best things in the land were assembled and the bad things all left out, so that our final memories should have no evil shade.
The scene comes brightly back again, the sheltering fir-clad shore, the staunch canoe skimming the river's tranquil reach, the water smiling round her bow, as we push from this, the last of full five hundred camps.
The dawn fog lifts, the river sparkles in the sun, we round the last of a thousand headlands. The little frontier town of the Landing swings into view once more—what a metropolis it seems to us now!—The Ann Seton lands at the spot where six months ago she had entered the water. Now in quick succession come the thrills of the larger life—the letters from home, the telegraph office, the hearty good-bye to the brave riverboys, and my long canoe-ride is over.
I had held in my heart the wanderlust till it swept me away, and sent me afar on the back trail of the north wind; I have lived in the mighty boreal forest, with its Red-men, its Buffalo, its Moose, and its Wolves; I have seen the Great Lone Land with its endless plains and prairies that do not know the face of man or the crack of a rifle; I have been with its countless lakes that re-echo nothing but the wail and yodel of the Loons, or the mournful music of the Arctic Wolf. I have wandered on the plains of the Musk-ox, the home of the Snowbird and the Caribou. These were the things I had burned to do. Was I content? Content!! Is a man ever content with a single sip of joy long-dreamed of?
Four years have gone since then. The wanderlust was not stifled any more than a fire is stifled by giving it air. I have taken into my heart a longing, given shape to an ancient instinct. Have I not found for myself a kingdom and become a part of it? My reason and my heart say, "Go back to see it all." Grant only this, that I gather again the same brave men that manned my frail canoe, and as sure as life and strength continue I shall go.